


Greece, Books, Murder

by AllisonDiamond



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Books, Death, F/M, Greece, Love, Minor Character Death, Mystery, Romance, Romantic Comedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-04
Updated: 2015-07-07
Packaged: 2018-04-07 15:50:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4269171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllisonDiamond/pseuds/AllisonDiamond
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A book signing. A romantic trip to Greece. A murder. Sansa is going to unravel the clues behind the murder mystery with the help of Tyrion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Game of Thrones or any of its characters.

[ ](http://lunapic.com)

**_Part One: Of Trips and Manuscripts_ **

It is the wine and lobsters.

Sansa spends the entire trip pouring over Tyrion’s manuscript of his latest novel, only dropping it down for a good glass of wine, and an excellent serving of lobsters. Lobsters go so well with wine. A divine duo. While Tyrion’s manuscript goes greatly, well, with a thick glass of blood, and some slimy fingers. A combo she wouldn't dare try, or even think about.

Tyrion’s latest novel, “Steer Back to Death” or as he calls it “The Real World” is just too bloody disturbing for her. God knows why that smug boyfriend of her writes the books he does. Earning the nickname, “The Man of Blood and Horror” does not exactly crush his ego. That is the reason he so loves to write those books, because his fans just keep on encouraging him, and she just happens to always edithis manuscript first before he hands it to his editor.

She really ought to tell him how awful his books are really. Yet, he is very good at he does, and his books are really good, and so hard to put down; only they are so bloody disturbing, and gives Sansa nightmares every single time.

_That man and his pen. She should really be the one in control of the pen. Oh, the things she would change in his books if she were in control of that absurd mind of his._

She laughs quietly to herself. Tyrion would be so mad at her if she has taken away the one joy he has in his life. Next to her, of course.

The Lannisters aren’t exactly the nicest people to meet, and to live with them, she could only imagine the horrors. Especially when you are the youngest child, and a dwarf at that too. Also, when you have been born, your mother has died in childbirth. Oh, she wishes she is there to comfort him during the talks, the mocking, the looks, and all of that awful things Tyrion has to encounter whenever he steps out of his protective shield. His bedroom. It is the only place, he has told her, that as a child, he has been free to do what he pleases. 

Sansa gets chills when she realizes she has been that close to dating Joff. That sadistic man. Thankfully, she has met Tyrion first, and over drinks and a hearty meal, friendship has been formed, which soon blossoms to romance.

And she loves this silly half-man and his bloody talented skills to write disturbing tales.

She really does.

When Tyrion tells her of this beautiful trip he has to take for an enchanting book’s signing trip, she has only been happy. An all expense paid trip to Greece. Count her in. The beautiful sunsets. The delicious Greek dishes. The serene seas with the peaceful clashing of the waves. The stars that twinkle under the nude sand. The historic feel of walking through the stairs of ancient Greek. The houses with that gives a clear view of moonlight and when it illuminates under the sparkling seas. 

It is everything she wants in a romantic trip — except for the book signing’s part — and Tyrion giving her his “eerie” yet “chilling” manuscript. 

* * *

When they land, she is glad to be off that plane; traveling all of those hours in a plane can get tiresome. First-class is great, but it still gets boring, and dull, when Tyrion decides he rather sleep than talk with her. He knows that she cannot really sleep through the bumps and turns of a flight, but he just has to catch that-needed-sleep. _That man sleeps like a baby,_ Sansa thinks, _one that sleeps too much._

“Sansa,” Tyrion begins; his eyes are soft and sleepy, “isn’t this swell? Greece. Lovely, don’t you think?”

“Yes, very. So, where are we checking in? The hotel?” She looks around the city; it is old yet modern with its structures. The old cobblestone pavements. The historic feel the air has to it. The many, and many strayed cats and dogs. A lovely view, really, and, oh, so ancient. She likes it. “We should really check in, Tyrion. My feet are killing me. I shouldn’t have worn these heels.”

“Oh, dear, I told you to wear sandals.”

She laughs. “Silly of me to ignore you. I do believe there are sandals in my bags. I think I packed them.” _I did? God, I must have packed sandals._

“Sansa, Sansa, Sansa. Don’t fret over your forgetfulness. I brought you sandals.” He smiles; his pair of golden and violet irises teasing and taunting of her forgetfulness. 

“Thank you,” she says, irritated at the fact he finds it amusing to tease her about how absent-minded she can be.

“My dearest Sansa, that sour look doesn’t suit you. Let’s go and check in at that splendid hotel. I’ve something wonderful planned for our evening in this ancient city.”

“Oh, do tell, what has my thoughtful boyfriend planned now?” She could never be angry at him. Plus, her boyfriend, is, oh, so very skilled in the bedroom. She doesn’t doubt that he has something magical planned for the evening.

“It’s a surprise. I can’t let you know, dear, what’s the fun in that?”

_Yes, he has something wicked planned,_ she knows this, _and I very much want to know what it is._

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

_** Part Two: Of Breakfast and Bodies ** _

Sansa drags the suitcase and all of the baggages, and regrets it very badly. When Tyrion offers to help, she really should have accept his help. But now, she is stuck with pulling that heavy suitcase and the bags all across stairs that seem interminable, and walking on the cobblestone pavement with heels is no easy task. To make things worse, she hears the clicking of shoes, and starts to stumble, she knows that her heels have given up on her then.

_Great, this is just flippin’ great,_ Sansa mutters under her breath, getting dehydrated by walking so long in the boiling heat.

“Sansa,” Tyrion asks, looking at her. “Do you need any help? I think it will be an unpleasant sight to walk around in those heels.”

“Don’t I know. I made these shoes. They are not supposed to be worn out so soon. I used very strong materials.”

“Oh, Sansa, custom customization isn’t creating your own shoes.” Tyrion takes the bags from her hands. “Better, dear? Oh, your hands will be thanking me now.”

“Tyrion! I was doing fine with the baggages!” She stops, and takes the bags back from him.“I can manage them.”

Tyrion laughs; a deep and mellow tone. “Greek’s air isn’t good for you. You do have the sourest look right now. Look, there’s a small diner there. Let’s stop by for galatopita and tiganites, and a steaming cup of hot pippin’ tea.”

“Tyrion, I might not know what those choices are, but they certainly don’t sound like dinner choices. Aren’t you going to get wine?”

“Breakfast for dinner in Greece. Who wouldn’t want to try that?” He takes the bags from her again, but this time, places a more firm handle on them.

“I still don’t know what those choices are.” She turns around to see a cat snuggling up close to her. “I don’t think that diners in Greece will serve breakfast for dinner. And stop taking the baggages from me. I can handle them!”

“I’ve a friend. Varys will be delighted to agree to my choices.” He winks at her, playfully slapping her hands when she tries to take the bags away from him. “Dear, your hands are branded from holding all of that bags. Just look at all of those red marks.”

“Fine, take the bloody bags!” she says, irritated at how Tyrion finds it amusing to suggest she’s a frail woman. Maybe he doesn’t, but he is sure as heck irksome now. “What are gala-whatever it is and tigi-thing?”

“Sansa, lighten up, dear. Anger doesn’t look well on you.” He looks at her earnestly, takes her hands in his, and rubs them gently. “You know I meant nothing by my talks? You must surely know by now. I’m sorry if I were a bit too harsh in my jokes.”

She relaxes under his comforting massage of her aching fingers.

“I’m fine. I just must be feeling cranky tonight. I did spend all of those hours in a long and dull flight. So, what are those things?” she replies, almost too cheerfully and calmly.

“Galatopita is milk pie, and tiganites are Greek pancakes. So, let’s go, and have breakfast, dear?”

“Yes, I could go for a couple cups of decaf right about now.”

“Then it’s all settled?”

“Yes.”

“Our evening is going to splendid.”

“Ooh, I can’t wait to see what wicked plans you have for us,” Sansa replies in a low and seductive voice, trailing her fingers down his stubble beard.

“You’ll be surprised. I’ve quite the evening planned.”

* * *

After that scrumptious breakfast for dinner (strangely, Tyrion’s friend has been very nice to serve breakfast for dinner, and it doesn’t seem out of the norm), Sansa is glad to be finished with the milk pies and pancakes.

“Come again, my friend,” Varys says, clasping his hands behind his back. “Greece is known for its divine dishes. You must come again, and bring the lady back with you.”

“Don’t think you can stop me from coming here, Varys! The wine is good. I don’t know if Sansa might want to return here.”

“I understand, my friend. That’s why I haven’t taken a wife.”

Sansa rolls her eyes at the two blabbering idiots.

“I think Sansa wants me to go now. I’ll see you later, Varys.”

“Come anytime, my friend. Take good care of the lady. She’s a keeper.”

“I’m a very lucky man,” Tyrion says, closing the wooden doors behind him. “Very lucky.”

When they are out of the dinner, far from Varys’ sight, Sansa leans closer to Tyrion, and whispers to him, “Varys is nice, but I really want to see your big surprise.”

Tyrion leans in closer, his lips almost touching her delicate earlobes. “I promise tonight is going to be wonderful. Just wait and you’ll see.”

“Ooh, I’m dying to know. Tell me now, Tyrion, please?”

“No, can do. You’ll see soon. It’s nice of Varys to give us this automobile on our trip.”

“It is. How old is it?”

“Oh, I don’t know.”

* * *

Sansa eagerly places the keys in the keyhole, tugging and pushing it around. Finally, it opens, and Sansa goes in. She drops the bags on the floor with a thud.

“Tyrion, is this supposed to be some kind of a joke?” Sansa’s blue eyes turn cold and heated. “Tell me, it is, or you’re in big trouble.”

“Lovely, don’t you think? The skeleton wallpaper, the bloody carpet, the foamy air, the realistic dead body, and the lovely white sheets.”

Sansa turns deadly pale, her eyes burning with flames, and her breath misty with iciness. “Tyrion, this isn’t funny. I’m not enjoying this a bit. You think scaring me with Halloween’s decorations is funny!”

“Calm down, Sansa,” Tyrion urges her, placing a hand on her shaking shoulder, but she roughly shoves it away. “This isn’t supposed to be for us. I had this prepared for my fans. If I recall correctly, you were too excited, and took the wrong set of keys, and when I tried to warn you, you were again too excited, and didn’t pay any attention to me. C’mon, Sansa, I’m sorry.”

“Fine, Tyrion. You’re lucky I don’t scared that easily anymore.”

“Not the evening I had expected.”

“Me either.”

A few inhales and exhales, and Sansa returns to her normal self again.

“She isn’t dead, is she, Tyrion?” Sansa moves closer to the woman, and checks her out. She nudges her slightly. She doesn’t move. “She isn’t moving. God, tell me, she isn’t dead.”

“She isn’t supposed to be here now.” He moves closer to Sansa, and eyes the body warily. “But I’m sure she’s very good at her job.”

“She’s very pale, too pale to be alive. She’s dead.”

“I don’t think she’s dead. I mean it’s implausible.”

Sansa looks at the woman again. “Tyrion, it’s explainable, she’s white like a ghost. I hear no breathing. No pulse. She’s dead. Oh my god, she’s dead, Tyrion!”

“Sansa, let me have a look.”  


Tyrion examines the body to the beautiful white laced dress, and the lily in the woman’s hair. 

‘I believe,” he says, reaching to a conclusion, “she is dead.”

“Oh god. This is not what I expected tonight,” she says, pacing around. “Oh my god, what are we going to do?”

“Go and get help. I’ll stay here in case anyone returns.”

She nods.

“Be safe. I love you.” She kisses him lightly on the cheeks.

“I will. I love you too.”

_Great, a murder on our special night,_ Sansa thinks, images of the dead woman fresh in her mind in various situations.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**_ Part Three: Of Cops and Clues _ **

Sansa struggles to stay awake; telling the Greek officers everything they know is taking much longer that she expects, and they aren’t really that helpful as she expects them to be.

“Miss, you didn’t touch anything, yes?” the cop asks; his voice thick with the Greek’s accent. He scribbles in his small black notebook; his dark eyes not leaving hers. 

“No,” Sansa begins, clasping her hands together, feeling how cold they are from the shock and all, “I don’t think I have. Wait, I — I touched her when I checked her pulse. But that was it. I swear, I had nothing to do with her death.”

“Sansa.” Tyrion reaches for her hands, rubbing them, and the warmth from his hands radiate to hers. “Just tell the officer what happened. He needs to take our statements about this incident.”

Her face softens. “Thanks,” she whispers, so that Tyrion only hears her. “Yes, I touched her, and maybe her hair too. That’s it. She was dead when we arrived,” she says, focusing her attention to the officer.

“That will do miss. Anything else, sir?” The officer rubs his thick black beard, and whispers some words to his partner.

“No, but I did see something odd. A poem, I believe, on the sheets.”

“The sheets are blank, sir.”

Tyrion removes his hands from Sansa, and walks around. He moves a hand to his chin, and rubs the stubble beard on his face in a thoughtful gesture.

“Do you mind if I have a look around?”

“No, do what you must, sir.”

He examines the sheet; it’s still white, a little too white, and smells too sweet as if it is sprayed with a heavily scented fragment. There’s no writing on it, though, and that is very peculiar. 

“I guess my mind must have been playing tricks on me.” He laughs it off.

Sansa gets up from her seat. “I believe I saw it too. Officer, is it alright if I used this?” She holds up a small bottle. “It’s lemon juice. It has been proved to work effectively against stains, and invisible ink.”

“I don’t know about that, miss,” the officer says, his words uncertain against the lightness of the dark room. “Miss, it will erase evidence, yes?”

“Gustaf, we have collected the evidence we needed,” his partner tells him. “Let the miss do this. It may be valuable to us, yes?”

“Alright. Miss, do it.”

Sansa smiles. _She always wins,_ she decides, _and she needs to prove her boyfriend isn’t a blabbering idiot. At times, he is, though, but not this time._

Moving across the room to the bed, she inspects it closely, and scrutinizes the sheets carefully until it clicks. _That’s it_ , she thinks, _part of the sheets are hidden beneath the pillows._ Gently, she tosses the pillows on the side of the bed, and trails her fingers down the material. Its soft material feels awfully rough on one side, as if has been painted. _That’s the spot._ Two drops of lemon juice on the sheets, and she begins to see letters: blurry words. Two more drops of lemon juice, and the words become clearer and clearer. 

**_Go back now, and steer ahead, or death will be here_ ,** Sansa reads the words, but she doesn’t understand it. _Who would want to kill an actress? A lot of people would, but she isn’t that well-known, and the Greek are nice people. Unless the actress is famous in Greece, and she has done something to flip someone off, enough to kill her?_

“I got something,” she calls out, still puzzled by the message.

“Well, well, well. The little man is right, after all,” the cop says, scratching his bald spot on his round head.

“I happen to think I’m usually right.”

“Of course, sir. I think that’s all. You and the miss can go now, yes?”

“I don’t know about that —“

Sansa cuts Tyrion off before he could finish his sentence. “We should get going. We should get some rest. There’s lot to do tomorrow.”

“Miss, enjoy your stay in Greece. So sorry your stay turns out like this on the first day.”

“We will.”

* * *

The air, cool and crisp, feels wonderful.

The air in the room is heated and sticky. Sansa, for one, is glad to be out of that room; plus the cops haven’t been acting like cops. There is something up with them. The constantly creased eyebrows, to the distant whispers, to the strange looks, and to how awfully easy they let her spray the lemon juice. Also, they are okay with her contaminating the crime scene. After all, she has shifted the sheets and pillows, therefore leaving her fingerprints. 

“Tyrion.” She pulls her jacket closer to her when a cool breeze rushes through her. “I don’t trust those cops. Especially the younger one. Gus, or whatever his name is, seems fine.”

“Sansa. What are you suggesting?”

“You know, that cop has something to do with that woman’s death. Have you looked at his hand?”

Tyrion flashes her a strange look. “No, I haven’t. Why would I?”

“Well, I did, and he’s married.”

“And?”

“Well,” Sansa begins, snuggling closer to Tyrion,”but there’s no ring on his hand. And when he looks at the victim, he looks at her like a lover would.”

“Sansa,” he says softly, yawning. “That wasn’t love. It was pleasure.”

“So, you have noticed? See, there’s something strange about him.”

“I suppose there is.”

“He was having an affair with the victim.”

“And you get this from what?” 

“From how he doesn’t seem to care about her death, but how he longs for her,” Sansa points out. “Something like that. I took a few classes in psych in college. So I know people.”

Tyrion laughs. “Sansa, that makes no sense. You failed those classes, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I did, but, he is the guy. I don’t know how. Tyrion, we need to go back to that room.”

“Sansa!”

“I don’t like to think that woman died, because of that man. What’s his name? Ram? Ramsay?”

“That’s breaking the law. I don’t think you could pull something off like that.”

“I don’t like that guy.”

“Sansa, that’s no reason to blame murder on him. For all, we know, that woman died of natural causes.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Okay, dear, we’ll return first thing in the morning before my book’s signing.”

_I always win._ _If I solve this case, it will give Tyrion and me the time we need to do something really special._

Breaking and entering shouldn’t be that hard.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**_ Part Four: Of Plans and Conclusions _ **

_This isn’t working._

Sansa slides the scissors over the cloth very carefully and takes precise cuts, but ends up making zigzag patterns on the cloth. The dimmed lighting does not help her, and how she wants to switch on the other light, or lights some candles at the very least. Tyrion, though, compromises this, because he is sleeping, rather well in a strange city, considering he has seen a dead body a couple of hours ago. Plus, he needs to wake up, so that they could go, and examine the crime scene.

She tries again — this time — moving the scissors very slowly across the material. It still doesn’t work. _Stupid scissors,_ she glances at the pair of blue scissors, and throws it against the white flowery wallpaper. _That should do it._ She smiles, then looks at where it lands, and refrains from laughing.

“Sansa,” Tyrion murmurs; his voice thick with sleep. “What are you doing up so early in the morning?”

“Did I wake you up?” she asks, fluttering her eyebrows.

“Yes. You’ve a powerful aim. It hurts.” He rubs the spot where the scissors land. “What were you doing?”

“Oh, I’m sorry about that. I was making us clothing to disguise ourselves in. Pretty neat, huh?”

“Disguise ourselves? Whatever for?”

_Why? To be safe, silly, that’s why. It works in every single movie I’ve watched._ “To move slyly in and out of the room.”

Tyrion raises an eyebrow, and flicks the other light on. “Pray tell how does that help us exactly?”

“Oh, you know, we won’t be caught.”

“Sansa, that won’t work. Excuse me, I need to take a piss.”

“Tyrion, don’t talk like this!”

He smiles, as if he is secretly laughing at her.“Why not? It’s only natural.”

“Just go to the bathroom. I’ll figure out something to disguise ourselves in.”

“As you wish, my lady.”

* * *

She needs a plan.

Tyrion is taking forever in the bathroom, and she needs to discuss what they are going to do. They can’t really sneak in just like that; the room is most likely equipped with security cameras. It is the crime scene, after all, and to break in wouldn’t be easy.

_What if the cops haven’t left yet?_

Sansa rubs her forehead gently, trying to prevent the migraine from occurring. She really couldn’t manage a migraine when trying to look for clues. 

_What if that cop is there — the younger one — Ramsay, is it? Trying to cover up his tracks. Tampering him with evidence. What if she and Tyrion run into him?_

She really doesn’t want to think what would happen.

“Sansa, dear, you okay?” Tyrion stands in the doorway between the bedroom and the bathroom. 

Sansa looks up. “Not really. I can feel a migraine coming. This _isn’t_ good,” she emphasizes on the last part. “I need to do something about that guy. I don’t like him.”

“Sansa, you can’t blame murder, because you don’t like the man,” he warns her; his voice is thick and serious. He seats himself on the bed, and rests his hands on the soft cotton bedsheets. “I really don’t think this is a good idea. We are just tourists, Sansa, and we shouldn’t get ourselves involved in a murder, as you claimed it is. The Greek can take care of it. We are not Greek.”

“So, we aren’t Greek. It doesn't matter, because she is, after all, the actress you hired. In a way, we are involved in her death. We need to do this.” She pauses, and delves long and hard into his expression. “I’m doing this. With or without you.”

He sighs. “Alright, you made your case clear. We will go and ‘investigate.’ I still have the key.” He jingles the key in front of her.

“We can’t go yet. I still haven’t figured out a clever disguise.”

“Sansa, we don’t need a disguise. We will go just like this.” He looks at his stripped blue pajamas, and her faded white T-shirt, with her black cotton shorts. “We are fine. No one will suspect a thing. Going in black, though, is a bad idea.”

“Why? We will blend in with the dark in black.”

“No, I certainly think we will get unnecessary attention.” 

“You’ve a point. I need to freshen up.” Sansa lifts her elbows, and sniffs herself. _I definitely need to freshen up a bit._ “Real bad.”

“No, you don’t need to.” He throws a bottle of perfume in her direction. “Spray some on. It will take away the stink.”

“Hey, are you saying I smell?”

“It’s not important what I think. We need to go.” He glances at the watch. “It’s 5’o clock. I need to be at the book’s signing by 7’o clock. Get a move on!”

“Fine,” Sansa mutters under her breath, holding back the urge to start an argument.

* * *

Flashing the light on the drawing fails to point to the right direction. It’s too blurry and too dark. Plus, her drawing of the map, because she has lost the real map, is crappy. Luckily for her, an old lady, whom they meet on their way, is nice enough to give them this ‘hand-drawn’ map of the city.

It’s too bad it’s so darn confusing.

“Sansa, we need to take a right here.” He halts to a stop. “You’re going in the wrong direction.”

“No, I’m following the map.” She points to the left. “That’s where the hotel is. I see something bright flashing.”

“No, that’s where Varys’ diner is,” he points out.

“No, that’s where the hotel is.”

“Sansa, I think I know where the hotel is.”

“Tyrion, I know it’s that way.”

Sansa walks toward the left, and Tyrion stands there, crossing his hands over his chest. He smiles; his smile lighting up the dark road. 

_I’ll show him. The hotel’s that way. He’ll see._

Sansa walks, passing the greenest trees she has ever seen, and the cutest dogs. After a few minutes of walking, she reaches her destination. She opens the door, goes in, sees Varys at the counter, and goes out.

“Sansa, is it?” Varys calls out of the door.

“Yes,” she replies nervously, laughing a bit. “That’s me.”

“Won’t you stay for a while?”

“Oh,” she says, searching for the right words, “I can’t. Maybe next time.”

“Did you had a fight with Tyrion?”

Sansa’s eyes light up. “No. We’re still the same before we came to Greece. Same old, same old.”

“It’s quite early. Have a lovely morning.”

“I will try to.”

She waves him goodbye, and continues walking until she reaches the end of the street. Spotting a shadow of a half-man, and she knows then, she isn’t lost.

“So?” Tyrion asks, arms still cross across his chest.”You didn’t find the hotel, did you?”

“No. Can we hurry up? The cops will be there any minute. That’s if they aren’t there.”

“Yes, dear.” He links his hands to hers.

* * *

 

Sansa grabs the doorknob, hesitates to open it, and slightly turns it after deciding it is the best thing to do. It does’t budge. _Oh, the keys_ , she holds her hands out. Tyrion throws the keys, and she does’t catch it. She rolls her eyes, and bends down to pick the key up. 

The key slides in perfectly.

Sansa slightly turns the knob with the keys still attached, and the door opens. She drags Tyrion in, and looks around the room.

“See, there’s no one here,” Sansa pipes up. “I knew it.”

Light-paced threading sounds like the clicks of soles when walking across the floor, causes Tyrion to pull Sansa down beside him.

“Shoo, I think there’s someone here,” Tyrion whispers, pulling Sansa farther down, hiding behind the bed.

There’s a figure: a man. Medium-Built. There isn’t much she can make out from the dark shadow, but she spots something else in the shadow; there’s something odd, like something stuck between the arms of the man. The man draws nearer and nearer. Sansa feels a chill coming; she leans back in Tyrion, and awaits to see what happens next.

The dimmed light from the room gives Sansa a clear view of the man. He has the same built, same brown hair, same innocent eyes, like Ramsay. Ramsay roughly throws the victim’s body on the bed, and laughs. From where, she is located, she makes out small cuts from the victim’s body. She has good eyesight; always have. She squints closer, and notices a missing lid from her eyes, a broken nose, missing fingers, and some strange craving in the woman’s arms.

“That’s sick,” Sansa whispers to Tyrion. _It was beyond sick. How was he going to explain the changes in the body?_ She sees a toolbox. _Okay, so what’s that going to do?_

“Sansa, keep quiet.” Tyrion clasps a hand over her mouth.

Ramsay reaches in the box, pulls out what looks like fingers, and sews them on. Roughly and quickly. “Tansy, you are beautiful, but you just had to agree to do the imp’s exhibition. I met him, you know. He had a beautiful lady with him.” 

He hums, “death will be here, death will be here.”

Ramsay looks at the dead woman, slapping her, and laughing. “I should take her away from the imp. She’s lovely, you know, better than you. Oh, don’t worry, I’m just making a few alterations.”

“So, it’s because of you, really?”

“Sansa, stop talking. He’ll hear us.”

Ramsay stops, and glances around the room; his eyes dark and bloody.

“Anyone here?” he sings in a sweet song. “I know you’re there. Show yourself wherever you are.”

He checks in the closet. “Not there, are you?”

He looks in the bathroom. “Not there, anymore?”

Then, he steps outside for a while.

“Sansa, I’m going to distract him. You go and get help when I give the signal. Get it?” He squeezes her hands gently.

“Tyrion.” She looks at him; her eyes misty with tears. “Be safe. Ramsay is crazy. You saw what he did to that woman.”

“I’ll be fine, dear. Don’t worry about me. I write these situations all the time.” He laughs, trying to lighten the atmosphere.

“Tyrion, this is serious.”

“I know, dear. I can take care of myself.”

“I love you.” She cups his cheeks in her hands.

“I love you too, Sansa. He’ll be back soon.”

She pulls him in for a brief kiss, and parts ways.

Sansa backs up against the wall, slowly moving along it, trying to reach the doorway. As she reaches the door, she hears her name.

“Sansa, look out!” Tyrion yells after her.

It is too late then. Ramsay trails his fingers down her cheeks; his nails digging softly in her skin, then roughly.

“Ah, what a pretty face,” he coos, “So pretty. Ah, wouldn’t you know it, the imp’s here too. What a lovely pair.”

“You aren’t Greek,” Sansa lets out bitterly.

“Oh, no, I’m not. Just moved to this ancient city with my lovely girlfriend, Tansy.” He points to the body. “She was a bore. I needed someone fresh, and she wasn’t ready to let go. And the worst thing of all, she was in love with the imp.” He spits on the floor.

“Technically, she loved my books, and not me, personally.”

“Oh, shut up, imp! I was speaking to the lady.” His eyes blaze with anger.

“Stay here,” he orders Sansa.

Sansa remains frozen.

Tyrion takes that for his move, and strikes Ramsay across the chest. Ramsay rubs his chest, and laughs. He reaches into his pocket, and pulls out a pocketknife out of his pocket.

“Not half-bad for a dwarf. Don’t get too comfortable.”

“I don’t plan to get comfortable,” Tyrion says, closing his hand into a fist. He strikes again, but this time, Ramsay holds back his fist.

“Not so fast, imp. I like to take it slow.”

Ramsay lifts the knife up, and drags it against Tyrion’s cheeks. Slowly, he slides it until the blade cuts into Tyrion’s flesh.

Tyrion growls, and struggles to take the knife away.

“Don’t be like this, imp. I like when my victim struggled. Don't take that away from me.” He pouts; his eyes mocking and taunting Tyrion.

“You basta—“

Ramsay slaps Tyrion hard across the cheeks.

“Oh, you shouldn't have said that. It isn’t nice to say things like that.”

Tyrion growls again.

“What? You’re a bastard. I see it in your eyes,” Tyrion begins, laughing. “I know a bastard what I see one. I’m one, after all. When you’re a dwarf, your father sees you as a bastard.”

“This is boring. I don’t want to hear your talks.”

“Ah, it’s true, isn’t it? Your father doesn’t love you. He sees you as failure. You and I share that same quality. We both have fathers that hate our guts.”

“You shut up!” 

“Oh, have I hit a spot?” Tyrion laughs; slowly moving the knife away from his cheeks.

“I see what you’re doing.” Ramsay takes Tyrion’s hand, and twists it, continuing doing that until he hears Tyrion’s screams.

“Never. Do. That. To. Me.” His voice is awfully calm.

Ramsay takes the knife, slides it lower down to Tyrion’s hands, and moves it up and down. Down and up. Then, he starts moving the knife, as he is cutting something; slowly at first, then faster.

Sansa sees that, and something inside her, breaks free with raw pain and anger. 

She reaches for the lamp that is closer to her; takes her time walking, and drops in on Ramsay’s head. One time which soon turns to two time. When it reaches the fifth time, Tyrion stops her.

“Sansa, it’s…okay,” he says painfully. “You are not like him. You’re not a killer. Look at me, Sansa, drop the lamp.”

Sansa looks at him, and drops the lamp. She tries her hardest to maintain her emotional state, but instead, breaks down. She runs into Tyrion’s arms, and lets it all out.

“I thought he was going to kill you,” she says; her voice soft and low. “I was going to lose you. I…”

“Sansa, dear, it’s alright. I’m here, well and alive, aren’t I?” He lifts a finger, and traces it along her lips.

“Yes, but what if he had…” She sniffles. “Had killed you. Or me. Or both of us.”

“If Ramsay had killed us, which I can point out, is a foolish theory. I would have find you.”

“You would have?”

“Yes, most likely. Depends where death leads to.”

Sansa cheers up. “Oh, no, your hand? Is it okay?” She braces back on what she believes is his good hand.

He mutters some harsh words under his breath.

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay, dear. Think we could leave me here, and go get help?”

“I don’t know if I should.” Sansa looks at Ramsay and then at Tyrion. “What if he wakes up? What if—“

“Don’t worry, Sansa. I can take care of him.”

“You sure? I had to save you, you know?”

“I’ll be fine, dear. If I need help, I’ll call for you.”

“Don’t say that, Tyrion!”

She laughs softly.

“My girlfriend is a badass.”

Sansa smiles. “And my boyfriend should stop talking now.”

She leans in, and Tyrion pulls her in for a long and deep kiss.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he whispers between kisses. “I still have that night planned. Are you up for it?”

“Yes,” she murmurs, “I deserve it.”

“Yes, you do.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I think this turned out pretty decent. It took less than a week to write. I wanted to see if I could write a modern Sanrion Au in less than a week, and see if it made sense. I admit this could have used some more details, and stuff. Anyway, I will not be going back to rewrite this. This might not be my best work; considering that I'm a very slow writer, and always took forever to start something, this turned out decent. Thanks for reading.


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